Underground thoughts
by AlessNox
Summary: John Watson takes a moment to contemplate his life. STARCROSSED III - Fits between Damaged and Runaway Pact *


Underground Thoughts – John Watson

John Watson entered the examination room.

"So how are you feeling today?" He said with a tight, professional smile on his face.

"Breathe in. Take another breath. And another."

"Look this way."

"Lie on your side. Wait just a moment while I call the assistant in."

"Now my hand is on your leg. Tell me, when I do this, do you feel any pain?"

He takes off his gloves.

In the hallway, He writes a few words in the file and prescribes a treatment for venereal disease.

He talks to the nurse and then walks into his office. The door is open. He writes on a piece of paper. The nurse enters.

"That's the last one Dr. Watson. I'm going to lock up the office." She says.

"Alright." John replies, "Can you file this for me?"

A few more things to write. A bit of paper work to file. Put away the stethoscope. Hang up the white coat. Put on the brown. Then down to the shop for a cup of tea and a magazine before walking around the corner into the underground.

There was a particular bench that he liked to sit at. It had a number of advantages. First it had a light directly over it that made it easier to read. Second, it had a clear view of the trains. And third, no one had ever noticed him there.

John needed time to himself. A time when he wasn't being a detective, or a husband, or a doctor, or a lover. He opened the magazine and crossed his legs. He turned pages but he never saw them.

This was his disguise. The man waiting for the train. Sometimes he would let his train pass rather than interrupt his thoughts. Today he thought of Sherlock.

Sherlock was his best friend. More than a friend if truth be told. He was demanding, selfish, brilliant, exceptional. Just the thought of him made John smile. He turned the page remembering his dark brown curls, and the way he jumped like a child when he got excited. John laughed, and then looked up to make sure that no one was watching. He shook the magazine and tilted his head.

And there was the new practice. It had been working out. Yes it was a bit ordinary. Most of a doctor's job was. Filling out paper work, and looking through pharmaceutical company web pages. But John enjoyed helping people. It honestly gave John contentment to help others and to make someone happy.

The war had been harsh and chaotic and uncomfortable, but he knew when he put a hand in the side of a man who was bleeding to death that he was helping him. John liked it when the world was simple. He liked to know that what he was doing was good.

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs the other way. Life in London wasn't simple. Too many people wanted a piece of him. Sherlock always needed hand-holding. John didn't know how he had survived before John had met him. It seemed sometimes as if he was incapable of picking up a pen on his own or opening his own phone.

Then again, sometime John wondered if he did those things simply for the attention because he liked it when John fiddled with him. He liked it when John did things for him. He had seen Sherlock smile when he made his exasperated face at one of Sherlock's stranger requests. But he usually did it anyway, because it was easier, and because it made Sherlock happy.

John took a breath and looked up. The train was coming in. He watched as people pushed themselves off and others pushed their way on. There was always a measure of pushing on a train. People eager to get going, or perhaps simply eager to touch another living soul in their solitary lives. He looked down and turned the page. Then he looked at his watch. He had time. He could say that he stopped to have another coffee. That excuse had worked before.

John's wife Mary was a very understanding woman. She also had an overwhelming desire to help others. It was part of what had brought them together. A need deep down to find someone like themselves in the hope that if they lived together. If they became a couple that someone in the world would take the time to help them. To comfort them.

John had found, over time, that he was unable to ask for the things that he really wanted. If someone asked for his coat. He would give it to them. If he needed a coat, he would not ask. This had led to many cold, cold nights.

When he was in therapy the doctors kept trying to ask him what he really felt. How could he tell them when he refused to tell himself. When he refused to admit to himself that he wanted more from the world.

That was a selfish thought. He suppressed it and stared at an advertisement of a girl with blue hair wearing a pair of earphones.

What John really wanted was a world without labels. A world without hate. A world where he could be who he was without someone commenting on it. Times did change. The girl had blue hair. Once she would have been looked down on, called a punk. Now she was in an advertisement. But in truth, it was just another label.

What would John's label be? Bisexual? A person not fully accepted by straight men or gay ones. He had heard someone say that bisexuals were only playing around. John never played. He committed. He joined the army. He married Mary. He committed. Why did no one understand his feelings? Why did they ask him to choose?

John looked up and saw a camera mounted on the wall. He wondered if Mycroft could see him. Mycroft Holmes was a strange man, a lonely man, John could sense that. He kept his distance from everything and everyone except for a brother who hated him. He was always polite to John.

John had had quite a few conversations with Mycroft. He might even call him a friend, or as close to a friend as Mycroft was capable of having. When they were together, John could feel the edge of his need. A need to talk candidly to someone. A need to have someone to confide in, to comfort him. John would always pull back. He didn't have the energy for another relationship. His main two were quite trouble enough.

John was a man who had everything that he wanted. Everything except peace. He had a serene and comfortable family life with the promise of happiness and dying in bed of old age surrounded by great grand children.

He had a life of excitement with Sherlock. Running through the streets of London avoiding gun shots and solving crime. He even had a bit of reflected fame, knowing that his blog was read by some of the grandest in the land.

But both Mary and Sherlock deserved someone who would commit to them forsaking all others to be with them alone. John wanted to be that person. He wanted to be the one person they could depend on. He was deeply committed to each of them. He was loyal to both of them. Shouldn't that be enough?

John stood up as the train approached. He folded the magazine under his arm and tossed the remains of his tea in the trash can. He stood still for a moment as the people pushed past him wondering which way to go. Which stop he would get off on. The stop that led to Mary and his home, or the stop around the corner from 221B Baker street and Sherlock. He stepped onboard still undecided.


End file.
